


A New Day, A New Program

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble that got slightly out of hand, Just a normal ol night for the Amazing Maxwell, Wilson gets roasted, and through those roasts William Carter gets remembered, ragtime, you have to squint to see the Maxwill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25711711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: He was still a showman, this world was still his stage, even if the music and magic around him had changed.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	A New Day, A New Program

**Author's Note:**

> Help, I've fallen in love with this asshole demon and I can't get up.

Smoke whorled with each exhale. The room was dimming. As soon as the thought crossed his mind a pair of shadowy claws appeared by the grate to right the fire, throwing another log in and adjusting the others just so. The flames flared, a burst of heat pushing against the skin of the demon as he lounged. A reminder, sweet and simple, that he was king.

In a room far away there softly echoed a familiar tune, dampened, fogged over.

The warmth of that fire, so precious a commodity to his subjects, called to mind a question. A smirk curled his lips.

How was dear Mr. Higgsbury doing out there in the cold? It was not yet winter, but what did season matter to a fellow so good at dying? That young _gentleman_ was his most entertaining pawn to date. So stubborn, so confident in himself, so god damn _stupid_. Wilson was a Juggernaut, small, breakable, yet he charged through Maxwell's nightmarish land like some Crusader, all for 'Science'. Maxwell was no master of the various branches of science, his expertise lay elsewhere, but he was fairly sure whatever the hell Higgsbury had been doing before he had come along did not count as _science_. Higgsbury seemed to know that too, deep, deep down, but he had his excuses.

This struggle between fantasy and reality was nothing new to the demon, nor was it particularly interesting. It was the passion powering it that was so brilliant to watch. It was all-consuming, that violent dance of will and body, it was _familiar_. He knew precisely how Higgsbury felt in that tumultuous, oddly screwed on head of his, because of _him._ _He_ had driven himself to the brink of collapse multiple times for the sake of dreams, regardless of how weak or inept _his_ body was in execution. He remembered _his_ stubbornness, the fever that was _his_ life, fueled by nothing but a few dollars, and fickle determination.

Those two men were the same type of god damn _stupid_. In another, worse, world they would have perhaps...

The once soft echo, the static between chipper instruments, grew painfully sharp for a blinding moment, like his skull snapping open. For two abysmal seconds, the phonograph was right there, pouring its garbage directly into his sinuses, every high note felt like an ugly pulsating infection. Punishment for slipping backward, for pampering his own form of ridiculousness. 

Reality returned, it always did. Color spilled back into the picture of the present. The fire had been stamped out. 

The demon flicked his cigar once, grimacing, then snuffed the thing out and rose to his full height.

Ragtime receded back to its faraway hollow, lulling once again. _He_ would have _his_ fun listening to it. 

Dawn was on its way now, a new day was a new program in the Constant. Already a crowd was gathering around Mr. Higgsbury and his pitiful little camp, Their eyes watching - _always watching_ \- for the oncoming gruesome spectacle that the Amazing Maxwell was expected to orchestrate.

He looked down to himself, checking that each thread of his precious suit was in place, the crimson flower in his breast pocket straight, and dress shoes without a scuff. A showman must always look their sharpest when they enter onto the stage, like any other businessman, and Maxwell was nothing if not a proper man of business.


End file.
